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RPlog:Orson's Departure
A moving backdrop of slightly reflective dark colors shift in the distance, like a huge sky made up of metallic hues picked from the canvas of a painting of an autumn evening. A uniform, non-directional luminescence is the only lighting, and it lends everything it touches a soft silvery-blue glow. Like water, the Force stretches out as far as the eye can see, small ripples here and there growing into gentle concentric rings. Everything is rooted in this mercurial reality, growing from essence and life here into the world of matter and being. Living, unliving, the past, present and future; all of it is permeated by This. Orson is dead. Like he's been ripped from his body, that which was Orson Tighe tingles with exhilaration, mind numb from the clarity of vision, the expansiveness, he finds here. Well, not dead, Orson thinks, looking with blind eyes into a world he can't clearly see but can still feel. But he might as well be, having given up control of his limbs in favor of this incredible freedom he feels now. A shade of himself is visible there, in the silvery water at his feet, resting in a meditative posture. He turns and watches the sky, the movement of colors and life above him. It was all around him, and while the things in the distance held a great promise of beauty, there was so much nearby that seemed worth exploring. The quieter he is, the easier the ripples are to see; people walking on the street in front of the hotel, a being asleep in this next room. A twisted knot of red-black at the periphery is Sargent, fretting over her meeting which would soon occur. There's more, much more, but taking a step in any direction seems difficult. _Jessalyn_ he wants, startled to hear the strong voice of his desire. A rolling echo returns with a rumbling boom in a long moment, that call racing over the surface of the flat water. A severe ripple rolls out from him at that moment, and he watches it disappear with a great deal of interest. The sprawling balcony of the suite she and Orson have rented provides a sweeping view of this quaint section of Plaxton City and its seacoast vista. Jessalyn is actually lounging in a chair in the sun, her bare feet propped up on a low table nearby, and a cold drink in her hand. The bright yellow glow of the sun beats down on her skin, warm and invigorating, and little beads of perspiration appear on her forehead as she starts to doze off. But that's when that sudden, demanding ripple pierces through the Force, and she comes back to full awareness without opening her eyes. There was no mistaking the source, and she laughs inwardly even while praying there are no other Force-sensitives in Plaxton City to perceive that same open call. _Orson?_ she calls out tentatively, her own ripple stirring the Force. Orson squints, turning his face into the gentle wind that brushes past him and carries on it the melodic voice. With a careful step, Orson extends a foot and moves toward her, looking down at the hazy image of her leaning back in her chair which is outlined in the water below. He spies a timepiece in the room from the corner of his eye. The numbers are clicking past in a blur. When he brings his full attention on it, the numbers completely freeze. Frantic, he reaches for it, plunging hands into the mercury like substance, but they close around on nothing. In the world of matter, the expensive chrono flies from their hotel nightstand, power cord jerked from the wall. With a simple twist in midair, it shatters against the far wall. He's free from time, but it's destroyed his equilibrium, and he thrashes above the plane, turning around once. _Where are you?_ Taking a moment to slip into a deeper meditation, Jessalyn relaxes, leaving herself behind on the chair and passing into the realm of the Force. Images flash before her as she focuses on Orson: the chrono yanked from its resting place and broken on the floor, his disorientation, that startling ripple through the Force that had awakened her. _I'm here_, she reassures him, the bright, jewel toned threads of her essence surrounding him with the warmth of her feelings. _Are you all right? You should be more careful_, she murmurs into his soul. Turning on her, Orson blinks slowly, seeming disoriented. _The clock,_ he says, pointing. _I didn't know._ His body's heart is pounding, and the demands of his material self seem to lessen his hold on this more true reality. _We can see Time too?_ He drifts closer to her, and moves for an embrace. It's not with the same confidence that he usually has though. Now he seems more desperate and profoundly shocked by his lucid experience. Like a frightened child, Orson clings to her, chancing a look down again. _Everything that ever was or will be exists, within the Force,_ Jessalyn quotes softly, accepting Orson's embrace and cradling him tenderly in her heart. Solemnly, she turns her gaze with his, afraid of how much to show him yet. _The past and the future both exist within the Force... some of us can See it. But it's constantly changing... even the most powerful Jedi can never know for certain what will come to pass._ Her inner eyes turn to him, searching and loving. Orson appears quite aware of what will come immediately in the future, and he skirts beside Jessalyn, practically clawing his way up her body to be drawn closer to her. This was clear to him, already, and Jessalyn's words for once seem to fall on deaf ears. Like he's trying to avert his eyes from a lethal accident, or more like he's trying to avoid looking down from a staggering height, his head slowly turns to the horizon of his new power, heart pounding. His grip on Jessalyn's hand is unbreakable. _Or..sauhn,_ a female voice sings. It's an alluring voice, from not so far away, in the past, but full of a lusty promise and a truly sinister edge. With a jerk, Orson turns and yanks Jessalyn along with him, pulling mercilessly. _Come on!_ The succubus giggles in another dark whisper, closer this time. She's truly startled by his reaction, and she does her best to shelter him from his fear of this newfound power. But Jessalyn's gentle persuasions don't hold their usual sway now, and fear starts to grip her. As Orson begins to flee with her in tow, she glances back, afraid to see what's behind them but riveted nonetheless. There was no mistaking the tone of that dreamlike voice, and her heart is battered by it. _What is that?_ she manages to convey, not resisting him as he pulls her with him across the changing landscape of the Force. Though he runs, there's no violating the laws of this place. Feel as if you're moving, if you like, but you won't move as long as you're looking back. It's a terrible, fruitless, struggle. _Orson! Come here!_ the voice calls out again, like a little girl pouting, and very close. Breathless, the man turns, shielding Jessalyn. There's nothing there, of course, but Orson sees it all clearly, the jet-black locks of her perfect, straight hair especially, in the reflection of the Force. _Marina,_ he whispers to it, and to Jessalyn. Then he's there, in the reflection with her. As painful as claws tearing his flesh, the present memories of manipulation and betrayal shred his mind and vulnerable heart. It suddenly all makes sense, and with clarity Jessalyn's resolve also returns. She realizes the futility of fleeing a demon that won't be denied, especially when it holds such a terrible hold on his heart. And so she threads herself fully into him, experiencing those things along with him. His terror and pain rock her, and even though she's aware of a vague sense of jealousy at seeing so clearly those memories of a life long before she had met him, she is not really herself, experiencing them as Orson himself did, and not as a sympathetic observer. Taking his agony and making it her own, and hopefully taking some of the pain away in the process. It hurts, a fresh and bleeding wound, the death of a thousand dreams and one more reality. Tears form in her eyes, but she forces Orson to stop, turning to face the pale figure that taunts him in the darkness. _Let go of the past,_ she urges him. _It doesn't matter anymore. You're so much more than what you think you are._ His body moves, an arm twitching at the hotel as the Real Orson lifts his hand to fend off the demon, or shield his gaze. He resists Jessalyn and that sort of intimacy, even as he needs it, covered in fresh and very raw wounds. It is steadying, really, but soon it's more her than it is him, his retreat very deliberate. _How can I?_ he says inexorably in a voice hardly his own, tilting backward and falling into the water without a splash. He plunges back in at precisely the appropriate point, back into the mix of present and past, jerking his real eyes open and staring at the wall. Heart still pounding, he clenches a fist against his leg and resists the urge to cry. With an agonizing ache in her head, Jessalyn comes back to awareness on the balcony, the sun still beating pleasantly down on her body as if she'd merely been leisurely sunbathing this entire time. How much time has really passed, she has no idea, but when she opens her eyes and sees the angry red burns on her arms and feels the stinging pain of her cheeks, she knows that she's been out here for quite some time. Her mind is spinning still, wrenched away from him, and the sense of rejection runs deep enough to make her hesitate about seeking him out. Slowly she swings her feet around and gets up, swaying when her vision spins, as well. Her hands wrap around the railing and she stares out, brooding, and gradually letting herself become aware of him in the other room. She has to know if he's all right. Finally she opens the door, cringing at the sight of him when she enters, and going to sit uncertainly beside him at the foot of the soft bed. Orson has unfolded his legs from the normal posture he and Jessalyn occasionally shared in meditation, letting them lay out flat into the carpet with his back against the bed now. A curved piece of smoky glass is in his hand, one finger running back and forth lightly over the ragged sharp edge. The rest of the clock lies beside him, little parts having sprayed out in a perfect half-circle when it struck the wall. "I failed," he pronounces. Wind lifts the long curtains from the balcony entrance at that moment, and as they cut into the bold lines of angled sun, they draw swirling shadows over the pair. Crippled by the familiar pain, Orson slowly withdraws, pulling himself into one small spot. "You did not fail. It's not failure to hurt. Everyone hurts, Orson," Jessalyn says, trying to sound soothing. His withdrawal scares her, so much that she's too frightened to even try to re-establish their connection for fear of his rejection. Panic catches in her throat, and she has to swallow it bitterly down. She watches her hand move of its own accord, touching his wrist in a silent offering. With a flick of the wrist, the glass leaves his hand and *tinks* into the pile. Orson tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling, but Jessalyn's too near gaze makes him sit up again. If he can hide his eyes from her, he'll be fine. Clenching them shut, he replies, "You saw all of it. I didn't mean to call you." But he did, reaching out for his teacher, friend, and more, instinctively. The healing power of trust and safe intimacy was real, but it feels like poison to him now. In a strange way, to see the mistakes of the past compared against what he has now makes him feel like he's led a very useless life. "But look at how much you've learned," Jessa whispers, letting her fingers drift up to touch his brow, lightly brushing back his hair. Her gaze on him is intent, even though he closes his eyes against the sight of her. "You wouldn't be the person that you are now if it hadn't been for the life you've led. Every path led you here, Orson. And I love you." Opening his eyes to tiny slits, he looks out across the floor and over the balcony. He lifts a heavy hand to his head, wrapping fingers around hers. It's all the response he gives for now. Orson wishes that the circumstances were different. He had felt it, but had not put it to words. He didn't want to cheapen those words by saying them now, so he doesn't. Can't. Instead, he gives her hand another squeeze. With a rough sigh, he falls silent for a long time ... Jessalyn's sadness starts to overwhelm her as she accepts the gentle press of his hand, but a moment later she withdraws into her own curled ball, her knees drawing up to her chest as she leans her forehead against them, pulling them close with both arms. Her eyes shut, and she's distantly aware that tears are streaming down from them. For all their closeness, it makes the separation all that much more painful, her heart reeling. "Orson," she sobs out his name without even thinking. The man hates his own name. It's different, completely, when Jessalyn says it, full of respect for him as a person and mate, full of need just now. Not saturated with guile and hate. Still, it's too much just now and he stands swiftly, grabbing her awkwardly and planting a hasty kiss in her hair. Without a word, he stalks across the carpet to the door, opens it, and leaves. It's all a matter of time. Orson's Departure